‘I’ll be in the garden,’ he shouted back.
Not wanting to put her filthy clothes back on just yet, she wrapped herself and her hair in towels and went to join him. He had a selection of Oliver’s prints already laid out on the grass.
‘Javier! You can’t do that. Put them on the table. They’ll get damaged.’
Javier laughed and said, ‘Calm down! It hasn’t rained for weeks and this grass is as dry as Margaret Thatcher’s pussy.’
‘And how would you know?’ she laughed, sitting next to him. ‘Aren’t the photos stunning?’
Javier’s uncustomary silence made her start to doubt herself. Had she been more impressed by the photographs or the man who took them? She had questioned Bill’s motives and now she was questioning her own. Talk about pot and kettle.
She watched a wasp hover above then land with intent upon Javier’s shoulder. She flicked it off with the edge of her towel. Still, he said nothing, hunched over a photograph of a stingray flying silently through its watery underworld. It was a menacingly elegant representation of perfection only found in nature. Again, the symmetry of both subject and composition. She hoped Javier was quiet because he was mesmerized by what lay at his feet. It was hypnotic and swallowed the here and now into the shadows of the sea.
He finally cupped his hands around the back of his neck and stretched as if he had just woken up. ‘My God, Esme, these are stunning,’ he said quietly. ‘Who’s the photographer?’
‘Oliver Maxey. He’s American.’
‘How could Bill have missed him? Or I? I know my photography too and this guy is a true artist.’ He looked at her. ‘Where did you find him?’
Esme felt she was witness to the discovery of something important.
‘I didn’t. Bill did – well, sort of. The guy came to see him this afternoon, except of course Bill wasn’t there. I’ve got no idea how the appointment was made but he seemed to know all about Bill.’
Javier frowned and brought his face close to hers.
‘Is he handsome?’
Reading Javier’s mind that was already accusing his boyfriend of a secret affair, she said, ‘Beautiful. In fact, sorry, Jav, but I pray he’s not gay…’
Javier studied her then squealed ‘OH MY GOD, ESME! You’re in love!’
She grinned, pulled the towel over her head and kicked him in jest, blushing.
‘I’m not! I’ve spent all of about fifteen minutes with him. Anyway, it’s his photographs not him I wanted to talk about.’
‘You lie!’
Jumping up as if the wasp had successfully stung him, he rotated his hips and stirred an invisible pot.
‘Esme and Olly sitting in a tree, K.I.S.S.I.N.G.,’ he sang.
The excitement of a galloping stomach made her shiver. She certainly fancied the leather trousers off him – Javier had worked that out immediately – but didn’t want to invest her hopes in a man who, for all she knew, swung the other way. And anyway, he was an edgy American art-genius – what would he see in her but a Sloane babysitting someone else’s gallery?
‘I have only one true love and that is Elton.’
She told Javier about their meeting, embellishing and exaggerating the story until Javier was screeching with laughter.
‘I can – not – believe you dropped milk in the street. So unsophisticated. What did he say?’
‘“I hate fucking tea!”’
‘This is too precious. I love it, Esme. I want you in my life forever! But forget everything else, you sold a painting. Bill will be ecstatico.’
Yes, it had been a pretty extraordinary day, thought Esme. She was doing things for herself, doing them her way, driven by her own ambition. But deep down, she knew she still longed for her parents to see her in action. She wondered if she’d ever grow out of the desire for them to be proud of her. Her mother would never be able to, but she hoped her father would be pleased to see his daughter making her way in the art world.
‘You ought to get this Olivio to photograph you. Become a muse like your mama.’
‘What do you mean “a muse like my mother”? Dad only painted one portrait of her.’
‘No, carina. Your mother was once the toast of New York. Everyone was crazy for her.’
Javier went on to tell Esme how she might have become one of Andy Warhol’s Superstars, had her father allowed it. ‘Colin. Always so controlling.’ They had met at a cocktail party given by a man called Fred Hughes who was Warhol’s business partner and obsessed by all things British. He revelled in telling all of New York society that Diana was a more beautiful version of Jackie O. When her father was off ‘getting down to business,’ Javier said Fred would whisk Esme’s mother off, put her in enormous sunglasses and a polo neck to see how many social-climbing wasps they could fool into thinking she was the former First Lady.
‘Sometimes, I was invited,’ Javier continued. ‘Of course I was young and beautiful too back then. Bill and I were still just flirting and your mother would tease me about him when we went out. We got the best tables in all the restaurants and paparazzi would tail after her,’ he laughed.
Esme hadn’t realized Javier had known her mother so well. He was full of stories she’d never heard. He told her how there were two sides to ‘darling Diana’. The ghost and the schoolgirl. The girl came out to play when she was apart from Esme’s father. ‘She had an aura, you know…’ Javier put his forefinger on his chin, ‘like… like a silent movie star. She didn’t need to say a word to attract people. Fred was so happy to have discovered such a prize. He took her under his wing and introduced her to New York’s movers and shakers.’
Because of Diana, he said, Warhol saw New York through fresh eyes. Apparently, when he and Diana were together, they would sit talking quietly and meticulously observe the superficial crowd that made up much of Manhattan’s inner circle. ‘Warhol’s notoriety went straight over Diana’s head. She simply found him a sweet, shy man. Like a white mole,’ Javier said. ‘The fact that she had no idea who he was made Warhol like her even more. He was sick of being brown-nosed. It was a pure friendship.’
Esme couldn’t believe her mother had been friends – actual friends – with Andy Warhol. If Javier had told her the Contessa was to be ordained, she would have been less amazed. She’d assumed her mother had no inkling of American pop culture. The upper classes she’d been raised amongst were so narrow-minded. There was glamour in the higher echelons of society, yes, but the beau monde was considered brash and vulgar. But as Esme was beginning to learn these terms were used as weapons to keep at bay a world they misunderstood, excuses to remain pickled in aspic, righteously and stubbornly looking to the past for their standards and morals.
‘This is so weird,’ she said. ‘So you think Mummy was cool?’
‘Oh yes, my darling. She didn’t try to be. She just was and we adored her. I think her time in New York was a happy one. She felt safe. She felt she belonged. New York celebrates the damaged. Andy loved that your mama was so beautiful but so sick. He said she was an incandescent star trapped by privilege. He wanted to set her free.’
Her mother might have been a star – but it was one that had since gone supernova. For a few fleeting moments, there had been light and heat, brighter than the rest of the heavens, but in her wake she had left nothing but darkness. Her mind had collapsed in on itself. Esme tried to push away a flicker of fear as she wondered if she would follow in her mother’s footsteps. She was a similar age to Diana when she was in New York, trying to find the hidden life of a city, hanging out with artists, hoping to find friends beyond the stuffy society circuit. It was a warning, thought Esme – there was a fine line between burning bright and burning out.
Chapter Fourteen
It was the night of Bill’s private view. Everything was going to plan. The waitresses had arrived, the canapés were plated, champagne glasses lined up on linen-dressed tables. Pulbrook and Gould had arranged and delivered exquisite displays of hydrangeas and peonies, blousy, extravagant an
d intrinsically English. But the stars of the show were European – the pictures themselves. Only six of them but each a perfect representation of the Baroque and Rococo periods. French and Italian scenes of exaggerated violence, rich and vibrant alongside light-hearted pastoral scenes. The thrill of being up close to such flawlessness never disappointed. She could almost feel the artists’ brushstrokes caress her. She still felt amazed that she got to be their guardian, even if it was just for a few days. Side by side, they were glorious. Extravagant, grand and over the top. A bit like Bill, really, who had been delighted by the sale to Elton John. By his reaction, Esme suspected the sale had already been pretty much a done deal by the time the superstar had come to see the Van Dyck, but Bill still let Esme bask in the glow of her first sale. He was full of verve and generosity as his guests assembled.
Cece had said she was going to try and get there early, but also that it depended on Dan. He was on a deadline and wanted it done before he came.
‘But don’t be later than seven,’ Esme had told her. ‘It’ll end around eight thirty and I want to see you for as long as possible and I’ll be busy clearing up after.’
Having organized the event, tidying up was part of the job as well. Suki would normally be down to help but her boyfriend was on leave from duty in Northern Ireland and so Esme had told her she could manage by herself. After all, the guests would mostly be wealthy collectors more interested in swapping art world gossip than getting sloshed, so it was unlikely the gallery would be wrecked. Hopefully all she’d have to do would be empty ashtrays and lock up. The caterers took everything away dirty so she would only have to gather the empty glasses. It had cost extra but Esme had told Bill it would be cheaper than her breaking things washing them up in the bird-bath-sized sink in the kitchen.
On Javier’s instruction, she had made extra effort with her appearance. She’d discovered a previous occupant of her bedsit had left behind a pale-blue shift dress which she had made more fashionable with a navy cummerbund of Javier’s which she cinched in and tied with a double knot. She swept her hair back on either side with two tortoiseshell combs, like she had seen Princess Anne do, and put a dash of Rive Gauche behind her ears. Suki would doubtless be in something froufrou and frilly, especially around the collar and cuffs.
She clipped some gold knots on her lobes and checked her make-up. Not too much mascara but enough to thicken her lashes without clumping, a lip-gloss sheen and swipe of blush. Looking back at her was the reflection of a sensible young lady. She looked like everything she was but didn’t want to be. Bill was yelling for her from downstairs.
‘Sorry, just getting ready,’ she said as she hurried down into the gallery.
The upward trajectory of Bill’s champagne glass stopped at his chin. He looked surprised.
‘What’s wrong? What have I done?’
‘Darling Esme, you look…’
‘Stunning!’ finished Javier, tonight the very essence of English gentleman in his huge shirt collar and spotty cravat.
‘What were you going to say, Bill?’ Esme asked.
‘I was going to say how sophisticated you look. It just surprised me, that’s all. I’m used to the ruffian scurrying about and here you are all dolled up like…’
‘Like what?’
‘Well, like your mama.’
The awkward moment was broken by Suki, fresh from the poodle parlour. Every inch of her had been whisked into a frothy soufflé of pink.
‘Esme, this is Johnny. Johnny Downes,’ she said, presenting her boyfriend, who sauntered in behind her.
Johnny was everything and less than Esme expected. A jolly but chinless wonder, who swallowed his vowels and wore a signet ring on his left hand. Like so many ‘gals’ of her class, Suki punched below her weight when it came to boyfriends, but she was born to take on the role her mother had lived and father expected. Forget looks, it was all about the pedigree. Johnny didn’t look like a soldier, thought Esme. In fact, he appeared more overgrown schoolboy than officer of the guard. She then felt bad at being so quick to judge. If she was looking in from the outside, she would put herself in the same mould.
She’d never dream of letting on to Suki, but Esme did not want to end up with a Johnny. She wanted someone with fire, who inspired her and encouraged her to be the best version of herself. She supposed in a strange way, she had her mother to thank for opening her mind to other possibilities, because the life she had led – married to a man who ticked the right boxes rather than set her heart ablaze – had hollowed her out.
‘Nice to meet you,’ she said to Johnny, and they passed a perfectly pleasant five minutes engaged in dutiful small talk.
‘Where did you go to school?’ Eton, she predicted.
‘Eton,’ he replied.
‘University?’ She already knew the answer.
‘Sandhurst.’ Full of pride, as if he’d already been awarded the Military Cross.
‘And when you’ve finished in the army…?’ Daddy’s firm, she bet. She was sure she’d guessed a hat trick.
‘Downes and Ilford.’
‘The estate agency?’
‘Family business,’ he said, rolling his eyes to feign he was being forced into it, as if nepotism had no part to play. Esme had had enough.
‘Will you excuse me?’ she said through a smile and a thumbs-up to Suki.
The gallery was filling up with older versions of Johnny and Suki, cut-outs of her parents and their friends. They spoke loudly, shouting to be heard over each other. It was a contest of show-offs, men and women who clung together like limpets, uninterested in anyone without a title or double-barrelled name.
Esme felt restricted in her get-up, hot and bothered. She needed some air.
It was a relief to get outside. She took off her belt which had left a tide mark of sweat. Javier came to join her.
‘I feel sorry for Bill having to hobnob with these types. Braying ignoramuses with nothing better to do than boast to each other. What they don’t realize is that they are all the same, just in different shades of bland.’
‘I was brought up to become one of those idiots,’ she said, peering into crowded showroom.
Javier laughed. ‘You could never be them. Your parents were too glamorous. These silly people have spondulicks but no style.’
‘Mum and Dad would be genuinely excited by these pictures, even if they couldn’t afford to buy one. They were always on the lookout for similar things – although by lesser-known artists. Well, Dad still is.’
But Javier was distracted by something or someone behind her, Esme pinched his cigarette and took a drag. Javier was still staring ahead with a look of naked lust creeping into his face.
‘Ohhhh,’ he sighed. ‘Who do we have here?’
Esme turned around. It was Cece and Dan, every inch the cosmopolitan couple.
‘Cece! You came.’
‘Wouldn’t have missed it for the world, gorge,’ she said, hugging Esme and then Javier.
‘Hey, Esme.’
Dan remembered her name! Esme introduced him to Javier, chuffed that she could do so with someone the South American hadn’t met before. Javier usually knew everyone. Dan shook Javier’s hand, complimenting him on his cravat and blazer. Javier took a step closer and gazed into Dan’s eyes.
‘Daniel. What a pleasure.’
‘Great to meet you, Javier,’ said Dan, pronouncing his name with a silent J unlike most Brits. ‘Cece has told me so much about you.’
‘All bad, I hope.’
Esme saw Javier give Dan’s hand a squeeze and was now standing so close, the tips of their shoes were touching: Dan’s cowboy boots to Javier’s winkle-pickers. The latter gave his best Gloria Swanson come-hither look, hoping to bewitch its beneficiary. God, Javier was behaving like a bitch on heat. There was something delightful about his shameless flirting and Esme was amazed to see Dan was happily playing up to it.
‘Not all. She told me all about your passage from Uruguay to New York. Sounds fascinating. I’
d love to talk to you some more about it.’
Javier looked like Dan had cured him of leprosy.
‘Pull yourself together,’ hissed Esme, smiling, as Cece and Dan went inside.
‘I can tell he swings both ways, darling.’
‘You think everyone fancies you, Javier.’
Mind you, it was hard not to. When he turned his attention on you, Esme saw it must be pretty hard not to succumb.
Conscious of abandoning her friends and nervous they might tar her with the same brush as Bill’s guests, she went back inside. Cece stood alone with an expression of awe, like she had entered a prehistoric tomb filled with cave paintings. Meanwhile Dan swanned around the room, schmoozing and smiling like a pro.
‘Blimey, Es. So, this is your world,’ said Cece.
‘It’s where I work. I don’t know any of these people,’ she replied. ‘Do you want some champagne?’
‘Is it free?’
‘Of course it is.’
‘Shit, yeah, I’ll have two then.’
As she was waiting for the glasses, Suki sidled up to Esme.
‘Who are those people, Esme?’
‘They’re my friends… And Javier’s.’
‘I thought so. He looks the sleazy type and as for her… I don’t think Bill will be best pleased having a punk rocker at his opening.’
Esme wanted to tell her not to be such a snob, especially as she looked like an undercooked version of Barbara Cartland with her frosted make-up and bouffant hair. In her formalwear, Suki already showed the kind of polished Home Counties housewife she was set to become. Plus she wouldn’t know a real punk if she had to pick on out of a line-up.
‘I thought Johnny was lovely, by the way,’ she said, changing the subject before saying something she’d regret. It wasn’t Suki’s fault that she had never been exposed to anything other than drawing rooms and shooting weekends but there was no need to be so judgemental.
Summer in Mayfair Page 16
